Nothing to Lose
by CodeLyoko
Summary: Seeing those who care for each other have to kill each other meant nothing to a nation who had nothing or no one to lose. Such a game would provide empty, desolate feelings. So if he had nothing, how would that influence his desire to survive? A nation that lived on fighting only had one goal in mind, even as haunted thoughts clouded his head; win. For the Hunger Games of Hetalia.


Dedicated to Meg (ask-alfred-the-sweet-stuff on tumblr) for making the Hunger Games of Hetalia and being our God 'Satan', and also to Ella (ask-aph-italy on tumblr) for being lucky enough to be the partner to a sadistic 2p Italy~ I hope everyone enjoys this. It was a more fleshed out version of my pre-HGH post. Look forward to a more fleshed out version of that memory below as well! Oh how I love being cruel~ I may come back and edit it until I am satisfied, but it's pretty good so far ^^ Enjoy!

* * *

Of all the times he wanted to kill the other nations, selfishly thinking about doing so in each and every war he had been in… This wasn't one of them. It was such a strange situation to be in, to have the want to kill drained away until he felt as if he was an empty shell, awaiting orders to go into battle. There was barely any self-awareness. Snatched up from what he was doing, being informed he now had to fight to the death with one other as his teammate; the process shook him to the core. He had never been in this situation. Only two on a team could survive and escape; those were the rules. However, if it had been up to him, he would have killed all of the contestants before they had a chance to blink to ensure that he would win, but he was unable to lift a finger towards them before they were sent into the arena. He could only rely on his partner and the sponsors who choose to support him.

The world he lived in was chaos, threatening the others with their lives; it was an insanely common practice. However… Now that he was in this… this death trap, pitted against other nations, nations he barely knew due to his different world, other than the various amount of nations from his own. It was such a change. They loved each other despite their differences and spats, why was that? How could they be fighting, and yet still keep their bond so strong? Only time would tell if the bonds of friendship would hold underneath the overwhelming urge to survive against all odds. Will the odds be in their favor or will the hope they all have burst into flames, slowly driving them into the depths of insanity? At least in his world it was easy to decide how to go on. It was live or die, until the opponent regenerates that is.

Luciano leaned back against the chair he was sitting in, having abandoned his only weapon on the table next to him. His assault knife was one of the weapons he always kept close to him, and the only one they allowed him to keep. So many questions were going through his mind. It seemed the other contestants had to fight against those who they cared for, but…

"It wouldn't make a difference to me whether I have someone to miss… It's not like that for me, is it?" A bitter laugh rang out through the eerie silence, filled with regret, longing, and despair. His words were cold and sharp, intent on only having their owner listen to their tone. Such strange emotions to feel at a time like this. To kill someone else wasn't new to him – he relished the exhilaration of the kill - yet, with the possibility of them dying like regular humans, to simply not exist anymore, to watch the nations before him never come back to fight another war; it was a strange feeling. He could end up like that, even with his knowledge and love of fighting. In a game like this, anything could happen.

_He didn't have anyone._

"Still, it could be nice to have someone to look forward to seeing again, couldn't it?" A wistful feeling of loneliness. Crimson eyes slowly shut to provide refuge from the world. There was no one for him. The only one that he loved… was gone forever, taken down by France. The last thing he remembered of him was slapping the offered hand away from him, telling him that he could be strong without him, that he didn't need him. Pain hit his chest; the memory still was so vivid, and the emotional response still too fresh. He could never forget those light purple eyes staring down at him, unresponsive to the rejection, as if the answered never mattered. Crimson filled with furious anger and hate, and amethyst with a void of any and all emotion.

"_Join the Holy Roman Empire, Italia. Only then can we become the strongest nation in the world. They would fear and respect us." Holy Rome lifted his hand, palm facing upwards in an indication to take his hand. Dark blonde hair reflected the dim sunlight, the white tunic flaring out in the wind, almost covered by the crimson cape tied onto his shoulders. It was a picturesque view, but the Italian in front of him snapped._

_Wrong thing to say._

_Gripping the butcher knife in his hands until his knuckles turned white, those bloody red eyes narrowed at the boy before him__.__ A slap resonated throughout the area around them, Holy Rome's hand now falling to his side, slightly red from the harsh skin contact. A snarl slipped through gritted teeth, the wind rustling the blood stained red maid's dress. The tattered black overlay prevented the cold day from penetrating through the dress. There was silence, the warriors with Holy Rome staring in shock, while Austria and Hungary looked on in a calm manner, as if knowing the rejection would have happened anyways._

"_I can be strong on my own! I don't need you and your damn strength. I would rather kill you myself than rely on others!"_

_No tears, no regret. Just simple and overwhelming rage of having been called weak._

_Holy Rome simply frowned, a speck of emotion coming to light in his eyes. Instead of replying, the boy stepped forward, kneeling down to kiss Italy's free hand, lips brushing against smooth porcelain skin. It was the briefest touch, lasting only a split second. Time froze, eyes locking, before he stood up and left. It was the last time he saw him. But the emotions afterwards still never left him._

Snapping out of that memory, there was the thought of his partner, so scared and timid of fighting. Feliciano, his other self; the mirror image yet opposite at the same time. To be partnered up with him seemed like it would be difficult, but perhaps this experience would open his eyes. He already knew; the world was a horrible place. Wars were raged, people died, friends were lost. It was a hard truth, and many refused to face the music of it.

It was something he was all too used to.

"What to do? It starts tomorrow, doesn't it?"

A slight tremble of the heart; a lost breath escaping from a shaky throat. His nerves were rattled and that was something unheard of. He refused to show such weakness again.

Whatever he had to do, he must. Luciano was not one to give up, to run away. If he went down, he would go down like a proud Italian, dragging whoever was attacking him down with him. Those burning eyes snapped open, glowing with a new emotion of determination, although a hint of sadness still rested in their depths. If Germany or Japan could see him, they'd be proud of him, right?… They would send him luck in their own strange ways, wishing to see the crazed Italian walking back onto their training field ready to butt heads with them once more. Or at least, that's what he was wishing was true.

He knew for a fact that Germany was annoyed and irritated with how they always struggled on how to train, how to fight, everything. They never agreed with it, and in the World Wars… The Italian had betrayed him because he hated fighting with him. Why in the world would he wish to see him again? The truth hurt his black heart. He clenched his hand. Japan was more of the person to somewhat miss him. The banters they had, trying to outdo each other with who could win.

_Inner turmoil._

Would he see his old allies? And what of his brother? It wasn't as if the latter could survive running the country alone. A soft but empty chuckle radiated deep from within him. His brother… His narcissistic, materialistic, fashionista of an older brother… How many times had he said that he hated him, or threatened to kill him if he so much as tried poisoning him again even if he was immune to it? All those times together, and still never getting along.

Eyes softened slightly. So many memories; so many unresolved words, ones that would probably never be said. Regret, it was so strong within him, a sensation he barely ever had the chance to feel. If only he could…. No… Whatever tomorrow would hold, the Italian was intent on giving it his all. Blood would fly from the fresh wounds, flesh would be slashed by a sharp object, bones would be broken and mangled beyond repair. He would protect his partner with his life on the line. Even if that partner was the 'tamer and cowardly' version of himself.

Looking down at the table next to him, he saw the letter he had written only moments before, the black ink still freshly glistening, promising the death of either those who he would kill, or even foreshadowing his own.

_Dear fratello,_

_You of course know my involvement with these… hunger games. Nations in our world are known for our violent nature, so one would think we would easily be able to dominate this game. However… I'm not sure what had come over me. Seeing bonds of friendship being destroyed for the instinct of survival, it's strange._

_We have no such relations, or at least barely any, in our world. With the nations we know, we are used to betraying each other for selfish needs, it's nearly like a game we all play, seeing who can win. But these nations are so different from us. They care for each other, regardless of their differences. Would that be the same for us, if you peel back the bloody pasts layer by layer?_

_You leave most of the fighting for me so perhaps… I am grateful it isn't you out here. I may hate you because of your actions but… you still are my older brother. If this is the only letter you receive from me… I'm sorry. Take care of our nation when I am gone. I know you can, you don't need me to make our nation great. And if you dare show this letter to any of the others, I will make sure to hunt you down and kill you._

_Goodbye brother,  
Luciano Vargas, Italia Veneziano_

A confession of the platonic love one could only have for a sibling who he pretended to hate for so many centuries… He only hoped the letter would be sent out to him, to provide some… comfort. He shook his head and slid the letter into an envelope and leaned over to hold his head, fingers raking harshly through locks of auburn. His brother, if he put himself to it could run their proud nation of Italy. Or at least he only could hope.

A soft sound caught his attention and those crimson hues darted over quickly to see none other than his partner fast asleep on the sofa behind him. He had nearly forgotten that Feliciano had passed out from crying, exhaustion, and overwhelming emotions. Staring critically back at him, he tried to recall what he remembered of his counterpart. He was terrified of fighting and would rather use that white flag of his to surrender in hopes that he would be spared. In that aspect, he was more than useless to him. If he couldn't fight, what good was he other than his cooking skills?

Sneering, he rolled his eyes, his curl bobbing up and down at the moment. He was so fragile and kind, how could he be of use to anyone, including his allies? Why did his allies still stick with him, not abandoning him as cannon fodder? It was such a strange thing. He last this long without wanting to fight unless he had to. So perhaps…. He could make him fight. There was no way he would be become attached to this burden of a nation. Huffing, he glanced away, emotions boiling up within him. He hated being cage in this set of rooms. Released him and let everyone see what a nation could truly do!

A shattering of the wooden table next to him echoed through the room. His knife had pierced its way through it and he chuckled, the sound still sad, still lonely, but burning with passion. His blood was starting to boil, slowly standing up to retrieve the weapon from where it laid buried deep within the grainy bowels of the wood. He never saw the amber eyes open in fright on the sofa, watching him with uncertainty. He held up the knife, drawing the sharp blade along his finger, watching as a tiny droplet of crimson fluid welled up along the cut. It reflected in his eyes, the bloodlust he was known for, the rage of battle, and the liquid lifeblood that would soon spill.

"Let's play… everyone."


End file.
